


The Fire at the Heart of the World

by hangthestars



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Ain't no party like an Inquisition party because everyone is invited and nobody is happy about it, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Multiple Inquisitors, Romance, Slow Burn, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 09:46:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16951707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hangthestars/pseuds/hangthestars
Summary: After a long and bloody war, Inquisitor Trevelyan convinces the Dread Wolf that it would be best to go back in time and prevent it from ever happening. Reality is, as usual, somewhat more complicated that she had hoped.





	1. Prologue

There’s only one good place left standing.

A decade ago, Haven had been burned to the ground. Five years ago, it had been recovering beautifully. Now the Chantry is the only thing left standing amidst the crumbled town.

It’s where they met. This place will _always_ be important to them.

The Inquisitor wears a hood and a mask that covers her face from the nose down, but Solas recognizes her. No one else would come to this meeting in this haunted town, and she’s the one who called him. They haven’t seen each other face to face in almost a year, communicating through scouts and spies and, more recently, spirits and undead soldiers, but Solas would know her anywhere. She’s just as alone as he is when he approaches the Chantry, sitting on the steps and watching him come.

Her eyes crinkle above her mask, and she pushes herself up to stand. Solas can hear the light whirring of the gears in her left arm. “You actually came alone. I’m almost shocked.”

It’s been _years_ since he saw her in person, heard her voice. It’s deeper than he remembers, and he feels something that might be homesickness before he reminds himself that this is a bad place to allow himself to be _nostalgic_.

“Why is that? You invited. I accepted.” He keeps a distance, staying well out of arm’s reach.

“When an elven trickster god rips down the sky and kills all my friends, I develop trust issues.” It sounds like a joke, and the Inquisitor spreads her hands as if she’s being friendly, but when she walks toward him, Solas knows she’s just testing to see if he’ll stand his ground or back up. When he stays, she comes close enough to touch — but doesn’t, instead just flexing her hands and letting them fall to her sides. “But you came. That’s what matters.”

“And yet, the question is _why_ that matters?” He looks her over once and then leans away, passing the Inquisitor in a half circle. As tempted as he is to simply watch her for a crack or a flinch or just for the familiarity of it, Solas looks beyond them, letting his gaze drift upward. The sky here is sickly green, the color bleeding from the scar that the Breach had left. That sickness seems to cradle the dark image of the Black City, making it more obvious in this exact spot than anywhere else in the world now.

“We need to end this, Solas, before it ends itself. All the real people left are hiding in holes, hoping we’ll _both_ forget about them,” she says emphatically. “Nobody is winning. Tell me you know this.”

Solas glances back, impassive. “Do you say this because it’s true, or because you’re losing?” He again looks away from her face before she has the chance to decide if he’s being honest or simply contrary.

“I _am_ losing,” the Inquisitor agrees, surprisingly quickly. “Technically speaking, you can claim victory when all this drama exhausts itself, but over _what_? You’ve killed all of my best, I’ve killed most of yours. Even still, you must know by now that there’s a Blight consuming Orlais.”

“There wouldn’t be a Blight if they had been left alone,” Solas snaps. “They were under my protection for a reason beyond _us_ , Inquisitor.” 

“If you hadn’t hunted the Wardens to extinction and burned their Keeps, we would not be without a backup plan! But this argument doesn’t matter, does it?” Oh, but she sounds as if it matters, and he knows that if he steps too close she may actually strangle him. There’s a tremor in her throat, and in a more trusting time, she might even be allowing this to make her cry. 

Solas stiffens, his teeth grinding until his jaw aches. He has nothing to argue against here, though he knows he would feel better if he just turns and shouts. A year ago, maybe two, he would have indulged himself in an argument with her if given the chance, but it almost feels too friendly to volley perspectives and insults while the ground beneath their feet slowly dies.

So, instead, he looks back at her again and says, “Tell me, then, if we are here for uncomfortable honesty: why hide your face from me? You have always been disfigured and there is no one here to whom your identity would be a shock.”

Her eyes narrow at _disfigured_. “If I tell you a story, will you keep your snide comments to yourself until it’s finished?”

“ _Snide_ ,” he answers with a chuckle. 

The Inquisitor gestures dismissively with her left hand, her eyes rolling back. “Why ask me if you don’t care for the answer, Dread Wolf? You’ve learned nothing in all this.”

“And you still can’t resist digging at me, even now. Call it even and answer my question, then, and I will keep quiet.”

She stares at him for some long, almost awkward moments, and he isn’t sure if she’ll actually speak now, as she’s just as likely to take a swing instead. But, eventually, she reaches for her mask rather than speak, peeling down the fabric. 

Little surprises Solas, but now he has to swallow a gasp. The surprise betrays him in his eyes instead.

The Inquisitor _is_ disfigured, and has been since just before they met. An ugly scar draws a deep, pale line across her throat, and a mess of scars on the right side of her jaw crawl up her over her mouth, dragging it down into a permanent and crooked frown. A small chunk is missing from the right side of her slightly crooked nose, and another was taken from underneath her eye, just barely managing not to blind her. All of those are old, however, light and soft against her dark brown skin. She’s never covered them as long as Solas has known her.

No, what surprises him are the black tendrils under her skin, seeping the color from her face.

“You’re dying,” he says, so hollow that the words seem to rattle in his throat. “Inquisitor, I—” He’s never entertained the idea that she might actually die in all this, even in his own attempts to kill her. 

The Inquisitor gestures again, gentler this time. “I was a fool. I thought…” She looks away from him, even as she steps closer, her gaze drifting up. 

“I thought the Maker might finally have something to say, but there was _nothing_. No salvation, no great cry of anguish for his children. Not even the view of his back turning away from us.” Her jaw is tight. There’s a tendril of Blighted darkness creeping up over her chin, as if threatening to reach down her throat. “I found a way to the Black City, even without blood magic. I did not see the Maker.”

“So Corypheus was correct about something after all,” Solas replies quietly.

“No.” The Inquisitor glances back up at him. “I didn’t see Him. But He saw me, sure enough. I’m sure He saw Corypheus as well. I don’t think that I’m dying, Solas, but I _should_. Before my feet find still more of Corypheus’s path. I’m afraid that means I’m asking a favor of you. A cowardly one. I’m sorry.”

Solas shakes his head, and bows it. “It is not cowardice to avoid life as a monster.”

“We’ve both been _there_ for some time now, my old friend. The Maker punished the world for my arrogance, and I lack the integrity to see out the Blight I caused.” The Inquisitor shakes her head. She wipes at her mouth as if that will help, running her fingers over her scars. “Before I ask for death, I have to ask for something else first.”

“Anything,” he agrees without thinking.

Reaching into her cloak, the Inquisitor produces an amulet. It’s ornate, inscribed with Tevinter runes that glow a gentle green. It looks heavy and fits comfortably in her palm — and in his, when she offers it to him and Solas accepts it.

“Dorian was working on this when he died. I have no magic, so it’s useless to me now.”

Solas turns it over in his hands, brow furrowed. He thinks he recognizes this thing, though not the runes, not the color, but… “Is this the amulet that Alexius used in Redcliffe?”

“Not technically, no, but it’s the same design and concept.” The Inquisitor’s nervousness almost melts away, replaced with a determination he _definitely_ recognizes. “Dorian was gone before he could test it, but we’re so bereft of options. You’re the only person I know who might be able to use it now.”

He’s frowning, his fingers tightening around the amulet, its power threatening to brand those runes right into his skin. “Be more specific, Inquisitor.”

“Go back from before all this. If you cannot prevent it all, then at least stop me from becoming Inquisitor. Build yourself an easier victory, and let us all die without this suffering.” With the ease at which the proposal rolls off of her tongue, she’s thought about this, likely over and over again. Solas can imagine her debating with herself when she could find no remaining friends to talk it over with, alternately convincing herself it’s the best or worst idea she’s ever had. Now, she watches him react with a steady gaze while she pulls her mask back up to cover the black marks across her face. “You owe me a debt, Solas. Pay it this way. Prevent me from finding the Inquisition and spare me.”

For once, Solas is quiet, staring down at the amulet. That she would concede now, that she would offer to lose — not just lose, but never have even tried at all — inspires an unexpected anger in him. For the first time he finds her weak, the thought overwhelming him with a bitter hatred. She could have given up years ago, spared all the people she had killed, avoided the Blight, if only she had stopped sooner. Throwing him a solution that would retroactively absolve her of it all feels more insulting than helpful.

The only person in the world he counts as equal, as even capable of understanding him, and she’s asking to be released from that.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks coldly. “Let you die after the Conclave? Perhaps before? Smother you in the cradle? That would certainly absolve you.”

“I leave that to your judgment.” Does she sound reluctant now or just nervous? “I admit, I’m not sure how far back that will take you or how precise the magic will be. And…” She sighs. “I would rather not know. Best I not be aware of the difference, even if this version of me will just be undone in the process.”

Solas considers it for another moment. He could kill her now, toss away this amulet, and be done with it all. She could be trying to trick him, perhaps to dupe him into erasing himself from time, as Alexius had tried to do to her. 

His grip is white on the amulet. The runes shine as his magic bleeds into them.

“Very well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 1 and 2 have been written but need some editing. Look, Ma, I planned ahead this time!


	2. Chapter 1

Thayet Trevelyan doesn’t notice that her face is bleeding until she’s finished killing Knight-Divine Matthias.

She meant for this to be more elegant somehow. It was a poetic touch to use his own sword, but now that it’s done, it isn’t as satisfying as Thayet expected. She realizes now, crouching over his corpse and feeling around in his pockets, that the line between a vanquished super villain and a dead husband man is very, very thin, no matter how many times that husband punches back.

It’s when she reaches up to wipe the sweat off of her chin that Thayet notices her recent injuries have opened up during the fight. They’re nearly healed now, but raw enough that the deepest parts can still crack and bleed if she’s struck in the face. Which she was. A few times. Even without his armor, the Knight-Divine was formidable. If she hadn’t caught him by surprise, she wouldn’t have stood much of a chance.

Now her time is short. It was _stupid_ to allow herself to be taken all the way to the Conclave before striking, but looking back, she still can’t think of a good time on the road to have cornered him this way. Attacking him with his Templars nearby would have surely been her death one way or another. No, this was the only way this awful plan — the one where she volunteered to accompany her husband to the Temple of Sacred Ashes so she could testify on the Templars’ behalf during the peace talks, all as a pretense to finding a moment with him in private to do away with him — was ever going to work.

Thayet tells herself that, because there’s no going back _now_. (Robbing his dead body wasn’t in the original plan, but where she’s going, she’ll need the money.) She takes his purse and shoves it into her pocket before pushing herself back up to her feet. After surveying Matthias one last time and with a pit in her stomach that says _you forgot something_ , she turns to leave him there, impaled on his own sword and smelling of shit.

After that, it’s time to flee. The Temple of Sacred Ashes is crowded with visitors, but it’s late enough that the halls are quiet now. With people making the journey to the Conclave from all over southern Thedas, nobody recognizes much of anybody, least of all a Free Marcher noble wearing a scarf over her nose and mouth. Some are still awake, of course, but it’s somber work they do here, so Thayet — with her face covered, her hand pressing the black scarf against her mouth, her head down and a sense of purpose in her step — doesn’t attract very much attention. If she was invited here, they think, she must have somber work as well.

There are such twists and turns in the Temple that confidently walking directly toward the exit won’t make anyone wary, so long as they don’t see her in front of the actual door, so Thayet fully intends to just walk right out. She passes a number of Fereldan sisters and a few Qunari mercenaries (hired as the supposedly neutral guards for the event), and she thinks she’ll get away with it, until she hears the voices of a few Templars coming toward her from a hallway adjacent to her own. She recognizes Matthias’s men even from a distance, and for a moment she freezes, considering which way to go. They’ve caught up with her in a cramped hallway, the journey back to her room behind her and a staircase going _up_ ahead. Neither way gets her closer to the exit.

Before she can decide, they’ve caught up. “Lady Trevelyan?” The one who calls out to her is the Knight-Captain, a light-haired man in his forties named Bardem. He frowns, his concern almost paternal. “I thought you were to bed for the night. Why are you wandering with no escort? Mages and Templars lodgings aren’t well-segregated, my lady.”

“I…” Thayet straightens up, smoothing out her tunic and grateful now that most of her face is covered. Bardem and his men have been kind to her on the journey here, and were kind to her back in Ostwick, after...

Their armor takes the breath out of their kindness. In any other circumstance, her loathing would be plain. 

“I was wondering, actually, if my husband had arrived at the Conclave yet.” Her inflection is a careful mix of entitlement and naivete. Entitled, because she’s the Duke of Ostwick’s daughter and she goes where she likes, naive because, clearly, she must be too daft and silly to wait until the morning for her husband to find her himself, or for an appropriate escort. “He’s so dedicated to his duty. I adore that about him, but I know he would report to the Divine before even thinking to see me settled. This journey made me so anxious, I can’t seem to relax without seeing him one last time before bet.” Thayet goes on, knowing the extra detail will help, but she worries that something else might vomit up with all those words — a confession, or maybe some actual _vomit_. She does feel sick.

(That’s probably a good thing. It probably means she isn’t a natural-born serial killer, or a maniac, though now is hardly the time to start thinking about the morality of things, is it?)

“I’m sure your lord husband will contact you as soon as he’s able,” Bardem insists. “There’s no need for you to be out so late—”

“Knight-Captain. Please. I appreciate the thought, but — you aren’t married yourself, are you?” Thayet leans forward, feigning interest and making a sympathetic noise when Bartem says _no_. “Then I’m afraid this just isn’t something I can make you understand. I will see him for just a moment and be satisfied. After everything I’ve been through in these last few weeks, I can’t be expected to wait to see my husband. It’s just cruel. You aren’t cruel. Are you?”

Bardem makes a face, glancing back at his men just for a second. “Mm.” Thayet wonders if the Knight-Captain can smell bullshit. Or actual shit. “Well… he should be with the Divine, of course. You’ve really gone around the long way.”

“I’m awful at reading maps,” she lies easily. “Which way should I be going?”

“I suppose you _can_ get there from here…” Bardem grunts, then indicates toward the stairs. “Up that way, all the way down the hall — it’s a long walk, I warn you, you’ve gone off in completely the wrong direction — and then a left. Her offices should have an ornate bust of Andraste at the door. Mind you don’t let yourself wander down side hallways before you get there.” 

“Thank you, sir.” Thayet lowers herself into a shallow curtsy, bowing her head. 

“Be safe, my lady.”

Thayet dashes up the stairs and hopes they mistake her nervous bolting for newlywed excitement. 

She means to stay at the top of the stairs until the Templars move on, but while she lingers, so do they. They’re talking about her, but Thayet has been a constant subject for gossip in Ostwick lately, especially among the Templars, and she can’t bring herself to listen to more of it. If it isn’t scandal, it’s pity, and she’s too sensitive now to deal with either.

With nowhere else to go, she has to find another stairway to get back down and heads down that long hallway instead. It’s quieter on this floor, devoid of even the Templars. This entire area must be reserved for the Divine, and the only Templars with her are the Knights-Divine, her personal guard. They wouldn’t be going on patrol. 

It catches her eye, then, when a figure appears stepping out from another hallway. Rather than the shining armor of a Knight-Divine, the figure wears a dark cloak with the hood up and moves as if it surely doesn’t belong here. An assassin, perhaps? Or a bard, which is practically the same thing?

“Hey! What are you doing up here?” Thayet shouts, and the figure jumps, briefly looking back. They’re too far ahead for her to get a decent look at their face, and when they turn to run, Thayet follows. “Stop! Stop it, come back here—-”

The figure turns a corner, and a moment later Thayet nearly skids trying to come up from behind. She’s so focused on catching up that she doesn’t hear the yelling until it’s so close that it’s a shock, a slap in the face, the sound of an older woman shouting:

“Someone, help me!”

The figure’s running feels different now, as if running _toward_ and not _away_ ; Thayet stops chasing and starts to follow, nearly catching up as they reach the door by the bust of Andraste and fling it open with purpose. 

The first thing Thayet notices is a _stench_ , the smell of murky dead things. She automatically covers her nose, willing herself not to retch right in her scarf. Stumbling into the room, the Darkspawn in front of her seems almost to jump into her vision, a grotesque giant with a permanent sneer pulled onto his face.

He has the Divine. _He has the Divine_ , held up by magic in a spread out, sacrificial pose, he and this ring of soldiers in the room — no, not soldiers, Grey Wardens. These are Grey Wardens, and Thayet’s never been so panicked not to see Templars. Where are the Templars? The creature has his hand outstretched, an orb weighing down his massive palm and glowing with a magic that makes the air crackle.

The figure doesn’t hesitate. They reach into their cloak, they pull out something dark and the size of their fist and they throw it at the monster. Whatever it is, it explodes in a cloud of black powder, heavy and loud and painful enough to shock the creature into dropping the orb with a great cry. As the object falls, so does the Divine.

Torn, Thayet spends one thought on the rolling orb, another on the Divine — and when the hooded figure dashes for the orb, Thayet runs for the Divine. The old woman falls into her arms like a sack of rocks, making Thayet stumble as she struggles to shift her body, holding on tight.

“Kill them!” the creature shouts, its voice deep and rolling. “Get the orb!”

“No!” Thayet feels useless, holding up the Divine and too weighed down to help. The old woman groans in obvious pain, and it’s all Thayet can do to try not to jostle her, lowering them both to the floor and trying to steady her.

The figure has its hands around the orb now, confidently gripping it and bracing themself against the magic as it bursts in blinding light.

\---

 

“I’m going to ask you again, Hawke: where is Anders?”

“And I’ll answer again: if you don’t piss off with that question, I’ll eat this entire boar myself and you can starve.”

Siobhan Cousland grunts in the same displeasure she has every night for the last three. Traveling with Garrett Hawke is a chore, like polishing a shield with someone throwing mud at it. 

“I can hunt my own food, you know,” she returns. “I mean Anders no harm. He and Justice _matter_ to me, I’m trying to _help_ you.”

In the dying light of the day, the fire casts Hawke in soft relief. He’s a big bear of a man, right down to the growling. He’d rather focus on the small boar roasting over the spit than on Siobhan; the boar is the last in a long list of things he’d rather focus on. Before this it had been the grass, and before that, a rock in his shoe.

“Historically, Your Majesty, nobody with a sword that shiny has ever meant Anders well — or they didn’t when he was alive, which he no longer is.”

“Your countrymen have a little more respect for me, you know.”

“That’s nice.”

Siobhan shakes her head. She pushes herself off of her log and stands. By now, they’re simply repeating a conversation for lack of anything else to say to each other. Hawke is too social to be silent, too angry to be friendly. In some other situation, Siobhan would weather it and endear herself slowly, but no other situation sees her fresh off a visit to Par Vollen, where even being respected feels like a survival tactic instead of a boon. 

Wandering from the fire, Siobhan slips off her cap, just to enjoy the chilly air. She had missed the cold air of the south and the towering silhouette of the Frostbacks. The frozen ground under her feet is solid and comforting as her father’s embrace. Leliana’s letters had been so urgent in calling her to the Temple of Sacred Ashes that there had been no time to go home to Denerim first, keeping her homecoming just left of perfect.

The temple is another half a day away, if she remembers the road correctly. The spires of it peek just over the crest of the mountain; on a cloudy day, it would be invisible. 

She turns back when she hears Hawke prying the boar apart with a knife. He may _actually_ eat the whole thing alone if she doesn’t return. Sitting back down on her log, Siobhan draws out her own knife to cut away a chunk of meat, warily sniffing before she takes a bite. They sit together without speaking, the only sound between them the butchering of the carcass and the muted noises of chewing.

“So what will you do if they give Varric back?” she asks, eventually breaking the quiet. “Just go back to Kirkwall?”

“I’m not sure how that’s any of your business,” Hawke answers around a mouthful of food. 

Siobhan rolls her eyes. “I’m your insurance for getting him back, you can keep a civil tongue for at least sixty seconds.”

“Or what?”

“Or—-”

They’re interrupted by a _boom_ and tremble in the air. A bright green light bursts from the temple’s spire, shining so fiercely that Hawke and Siobhan have to shield their eyes. Chunks debris hurl through the air, falling like meteors.

The boar is abandoned, partly because of the sudden event, but mostly because a hunk of stone the side of a horse crushes their firepit and flattens their dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally chapters 1 and 2. I smushed 'em together. Fun!


End file.
